“First Coffee, Then You”
Lena stirred her porridge lazily as Sam burst into the kitchen, eyes alight with the fervour of a man possessed. “Lena, listen—I’ve had a stroke of genius! A start-up. A game-changer. A platform delivering *everything*—socks to kebabs!”
“That already exists,” she said flatly.
“But ours will be *different*!” He jabbed a dramatic finger skyward. “AI-powered predictive delivery! The algorithm anticipates your needs before you even order!”
“So… mind-reading groceries?”
“Exactly! A revolution.”
“And where, pray tell, will this revolution unfold?”
“Well… here. For now. Bootstrapping phase. A kitchen co-working space, if you will.”
“Sam. I *work* here. Deadlines exist.”
“Darling, we won’t clash. I’ve already rallied the lads—they’re *on board*. It’ll be brilliant!”
The “lads” numbered four.
By 9 a.m. the next morning, Lena froze in the kitchen doorway.
Three blokes and a girl in a hoodie (“Freelance or Die”) hunched over laptops. The air reeked of festival-strength coffee. The fridge bore a chart titled “Hypothesis Growth: Pipe Dream to Profit.”
“Morning!” boomed one beard.
“I *live* here,” Lena replied.
“Brilliant! So do we. Nearly,” Sam winked. “Meet Dave, Tom, Lucy, and Arthur. The dream team!”
“How long?”
“Till we take off.”
“And if you don’t?”
“*When*,” Sam corrected.
Lena reached for the coffee—only to find matcha in the machine. The kettle floated with a bath bomb (orange zest and existential dread). The milk was gone. Coconut water sat in its place.
She retreated to the bedroom.
“Work begins,” she muttered, “in hell.”
By week’s end, her flat had morphed into a co-working hub; she, the trespasser. Lucy’s knickers dried in the lounge. Dave reconfigured the router. Arthur Zoomed clients from the kitchen table. Sam thrived: “We’re *this close* to breaking through! Just need case studies and a smidge of ad spend!”
“And *space*. A smidge of that,” Lena said, eyeing the chia seeds in her mug.
“You’ll adapt to creative synergy!”
“I adapted to *silence*. And not finding strangers’ pants in my dryer.”
When Lucy took a Zoom call *mid-shower* that Friday, Lena snapped.
First, subtly. She “accidentally” unplugged the router. Five minutes later:
“Your Wi-Fi working?” Dave asked.
“Must be an outage. The universe conspires.”
Next day, she renamed the network: “Peace_And_Quiet.” Sam raged: “Who changed it? *Sabotage!*”
“Or divine intervention. Your investor couldn’t Zoom? Perhaps because you’re in a *living room*, not an office.”
“This is a *home*, not a—”
“Then why do I feel like a lodger?”
The reckoning came Monday. The investor balked—especially when Lucy stormed out mid-call, towel-clad, shrieking: “Who nicked my shampoo?!”
Sam slumped onto the bed, shoes dangling. “We cocked it up.”
“*Now* you notice?” Lena shut her laptop. “I thought you’d moved in permanently.”
“I just wanted to build something—”
“You built a frat house. Snack-bar diet and all.”
“Was it… a bad plan?”
“It stopped being *our* home. I vanished in it.”
“Why didn’t you say sooner?”
“Would you have *heard*?”
Silence.
“Maybe,” he ventured, “we rent proper offices?”
“*Maybe?*”
“Proper desks. Grown-up hours. No ‘brainstorms’ over the toaster.”
“And the kettle?”
“Yours. Guarded.”
“The router?”
“Scout’s honour.”
A week later, peace resumed. Lucy migrated to a co-working space. Dave got a “proper job.” Arthur fled to Manchester. Tom vanished.
Sam leased a cubicle in The Hive Business Centre, texting Lena a proud photo: “Wi-Fi. No socks on chandeliers.”
She opened the window. Silence. Coffee in her favourite mug. The kettle no longer smelled of citrus and despair.
“I’m home,” she announced.
Then smiled.
And updated the router password: “Discuss_With_Me_First.”
A week passed. The dripping tap became a luxury—meditative, after the grind of brainstorming and rogue matcha. Lena sipped coffee by the window, their terrier snoozing beside her. The new router bore Sam’s scribbled vow: “Do Not Touch.”
He kept his word. Mostly.
“Lena, love!” His voice rang from the hall. “Just popping in!”
She turned. Sam loomed with a spectacled lad in a tech hoodie.
“Anton. Brilliant developer. Needs to demo something on your monitor—ours is rubbish. Five minutes?”
“*One* lamp in your office?”
“Start-ups pivot, darling!”
An hour later, Anton hunched over her desk. Sam fried eggs. Trainers littered the rug.
“Moving in?” Lena asked.
“Just cosy here! Smells like buns!”
“That’s my ‘Silent Rage’ candle.”
Sam grinned. “Your wit slays me.”
“Boundaries slay *you*. Out.”
The “chat” that night was familiar.
“You’re overreacting,” Sam pleaded. “He’s harmless! We barely *breathed*!”
“And yet, here you are, justifying. Again.”
“It’s *not* like last time—”
“Worse. It’s creeping back. One ‘quick favour.’ Then a ‘tiny meeting.’ Then my kitchen’s a WeWork.”
“I’d *never*—”
“You’re so afraid of losing the idea, you’re losing *me*.”
Next morning, Lena left. No drama. Just a co-working space across town—overpriced, reeking of vanilla and plastic, but *hers*.
Sam found her note: “Wi-Fi’s on. Kettle’s in the cupboard. I’m off-grid.”
Three days later, he arrived with tulips and puppy-dog eyes.
“I *get* it now. I thought the idea was everything. But without *us*, it’s nothing.”
“Poetic. Anton’s words?”
“Mine. Thought of it in *silence*. Imagine.”
They walked home, hand in hand.
Peace lasted a week.
Then Lucy appeared—hoodie frayed, backpack bulging with chaos.
“Mind if I crash? My flat’s got a yowling cat and a rapping neighbour.”
Sam hesitated. Lena sighed.
“Two nights. No shower Zooms.”
Lucy beamed, then called: “Wi-Fi password?”
Lena and Sam chorused:
“Discuss_With_Me_First.”
